


Determination

by narsus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-27
Updated: 2010-12-27
Packaged: 2017-10-14 03:49:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/145024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narsus/pseuds/narsus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>She can’t do what he does, she can’t inspire the people around her to be better just because she exists, but that’s alright, that isn’t what she’s meant for.  Her self-control is the standard that she measures herself by: she measures her brother by his heroism.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Determination

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss & Steven Moffat, and obviously in the genesis of it all, to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

When she gives him the phone it’s, in part, for selfish reasons. She doesn’t let herself admit it when she tells him to keep in touch but it’s there, the recognition in both their eyes of something worse that even this. He’s been injured, shows little chance of rehabilitating, still has flashbacks and keeps himself closely guarded around everyone. He’s a doctor, a former soldier, he has a charming smile and bright, laughing eyes, or at least he use to. He’s not the brother she remembers. It’s as if a candle’s guttered out. The spark that animated him is gone, perhaps forever. There’s no joy in his eyes anymore, no passion, no zest for life. He just limps along, gaze hazy, not fixed on anything at all.

She hadn’t planned to give him her phone. They’d just met up in a cafe as the autumn was closing in, to attempt conversation. He’d chosen Holland Park because it gave him an excuse not to look at her, he could pretend that he was admiring the view instead of deliberately avoiding her gaze. They hadn’t even talked properly, not really, not about anything of consequence and at the end of the allotted hour he’d simply stood up and prepared to leave. He’d only allowed an hour, somehow informing her of it rather than giving a concrete reason, and once the time was up he’d made ready to depart. He hadn’t said he’d keep in touch or that he’d see her again, he’d just turned away to go. She’d been meaning to stop off somewhere to sell that phone anyway, she might even have got a tenner for it, but suddenly it had been in her outstretched hand and she was offering, no, giving it to him and telling him not to refuse.

The walk from the cafe to the tube afterwards had seemed somehow colder than before. Even the cheery Kensington crowds that drifted away from the station and up the road towards the various shops hadn’t lifted her spirits. She’d left him in the park. She’d suggested walking to the tube together but he’d abruptly turned in another direction, nodded to her in farewell and set off at a determined pace away from her. He’d ignored the beginnings of her offering her hand.

In the end he doesn’t call her at all, not that she’s too surprised about it. He’s always been strong-willed: in her own way she has been too. Which is why the blog surprises her, and the flatmate, and the honest to goodness _adventures_. The little brother she remembers now was a tired, broken man: the man who helps solve unsolvable crimes is the funny, witty, thrill-seeking brother of yesteryear. It triggers something in her: a long buried, eternal, desperately competitive sibling rivalry. The rivalry that listed the names of the girls she’s kissed on a night out, the number of pints she’d drunk, the number of family functions that she’d attended, hung over, but was perfectly presentable at. Suddenly, John is nothing less than that annoying younger brother chasing all the girls she chases. Suddenly, even though he doesn’t yet know it, the game is on again.

Watsons are a stubborn lot and when Harry decides that she’s going cold turkey she simply does. She throws out all the alcohol in the house, stocks up on healthy food and simply refuses to drink anything other than water or hot chocolate in the evening. Her body reacts, her hands shake, her mind feels clouded, her ability to get her bearings, even as she walks around the house, is variable but none of that matters. What matters is that she be on form, that she manage to trump her younger brother.

At her work Christmas party she slams back an Old Fashioned, sets the empty glass down on the bar, grabs the bottle of water she’s ordered along with it and, with a nod in the general direction of her colleagues, heads across the floor towards the attractive woman who’s been smiling in her direction for the last five minutes. She drinks water for the rest of the night and when her companion wakes her the next morning, she has a mug of hot water with a slice of lemon. At work the following Monday she deflects the questions with ease and hears someone comment as she moves past: “They made a series about her but its set in the sixties and they changed her name to Don.”

She doesn’t attempt to contact John, doesn’t keep an eye out for him or try to wonder too much about how he’s doing. He’s well as far as his blog reveals, and that’s already enough. She’s charming enough when she wants to be, suave and debonair when the moment calls for it but she’s never been a hero. She’s never known how to save someone else’s life just through her presence alone. She can’t do what he does, she can’t inspire the people around her to be better just because she exists, but that’s alright, that isn’t what she’s meant for. Her self-control is the standard that she measures herself by: she measures her brother by his heroism.

When the black car pulls up outside her office she suspects that it has something to do with her brother, not that the attractive woman in the car will confirm it. There’s no chance of learning where she’s being taken or why but in the space of their half hour journey she learns that the other woman goes by ‘Anthea’ because her real name is rarely pronounced correctly, that she buys her underwear from Marks & Spencer’s and that, by god, _those_ are real.

An hour later she’s sitting in a non-descript government office, glass of water in hand, smiling the smile that she usually reserves for the world’s most attractive women.

“If you were a woman...”  
“If you were a man I wouldn’t say no.”

She grins, raises her glass of water in a salute and proceeds to down the contents. She can’t afford to linger over the contractual arrangements really; she’s got a very high ranked secret service operative to take to dinner after all.

**Author's Note:**

> The series set in the 60s and featuring the main character of Don Draper is _Mad Men_.  
>  An Old Fashioned is Don Draper's drink of choice.  
> In keeping with another piece I’ve written I’m suggesting that Anthea’s real name is ‘Aparajita’.


End file.
